Strong. Fighting. Surviving.

Some things are simply too difficult to write about using cute little analogies. This is a stream of consciousness, brought on by a very rough week and accentuated by a few sleepless nights. This is undoubtedly the most candid and personal post I’ve ever written. No word-smithing here, just spell check and my honest thoughts.

I was disappointed to learn that I couldn’t have treatment on Wednesday - low platelets again. My oncologist suspects that this is in part due to the fact that my monthly visitor won’t go away. So I was referred to my girlie doctor to figure out how to remedy the situation. He gave me two options. The first is temporary - a shot in the arm every three months. The second is permanent - routine surgery. Here’s the kicker: the ‘temporary’ solution may in fact turn out to be permanent. It could send me sliding into menopause at the age of 35. My only legacy: a dog, a cat, and a couple of overweight horses.

When you’re first diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer and given just a few months to live, there are some things that simply aren’t on your radar screen. Fertility is one of them. Sure, many cancer patients take precautionary steps in the hope of one day having a family. It was clear to me that the issue was never put on the table, never discussed, because I didn’t have a ‘one day’ in my future.

So, I had a decision to make and the doctor wanted that decision immediately. Temporary or permanent. But laying there, staring at a hideous mobile, I knew I was far from making that decision. I also knew that I needed to get the hell out of there.

I spent the next hour walking around a bookstore, weighing my options. I thought I had accepted the fact that I would never be a mother - I mean I’ve had more than a year to get over it - but my thoughts turned to all of things that I would be missing. I’d never get to spend nine months watching my tummy (and my ass) grow. I’d never get to feel embarrassed when unwrapping a breast pump. And I’d never get to complain to coworkers about the woes of teething.

The more I thought about the decision, the heavier it got. I wasn’t just making a decision about babies, I was deciding how I saw my future. Was I ready to take pregnancy out of the equation even though it remained one of my dreams?

A smarter person would’ve probably gone for the permanent option, but something inside me said that I wasn’t ready to give up just yet. Taking the permanent route almost seemed like I was guaranteeing that I would never have my ‘one day.’ Regardless of whether or not a pregnancy is in my future, I don’t ever want to take away the potential of it and if that means getting a shot every three months, then so be it.

So, after all that, I just hope my platelets appreciate the stress and anxiety they’ve caused me and maybe they’ll feel guilty enough to make an appearance next week.

Tim and I exchanged puzzled looks and the doctor, sensing our confusion, repeated the question. ‘What did you do?‘ At first I thought it was rhetorical - as in what did I do to get cancer - but then I realized he was asking a fairly routine question. Looking back at it, the question itself wasn’t that confusing, it was the tense. There I was, wrapped in one of those Tyvek envelops they call a gown, glaring at the doctor because he used the past tense.

It wasn’t the doctor’s fault. I know most people in my position would quit their jobs, travel the world, blah, blah, blah…but, I was rather annoyed that he made the assumption that I wasn’t working anymore. I wonder what other assumptions people have made about me, or about cancer patients in general.

I’ve seen my fair share of assumptions and, after searching online, found that I’m not alone. I understand how easy it is to make assumptions and, before I was diagnosed, I was guilty of making a few myself when it came to cancer patients. So, in an effort to help all you non-carcinoma folks out there, I thought I’d start a list of assumptions that I’ve either experienced or observed over the past year. Just remember - When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.

1. Type of cancer: A lot of people assume I have breast cancer - I guess that’s because I have breasts. I get that a few times a week and still have yet to come up with a witty response (any suggestions?).
2. Depression: Despite the stockpile of anxiety meds, I don’t think I’m depressed. I have the occasional meltdown, but for the most part, I think I’m in a good place. Maybe that’s the denial talking.
3. Pity Compliment: I despise pity compliments. ‘At least you look cute in hats.‘ Thanks, but I looked cuter with hair. Just a bit of advice, try to avoid using ‘at least‘ when giving a compliment.
4. Gifts: Don’t assume that presents need to be more profound or meaningful because I have cancer. I still love chocolate and jewelry.
5. Hair loss: I went a year without losing my hair. Don’t make the assumption that someone wearing a ‘F*ck Cancer’ shirt doesn’t have the right to wear it because she has a full head of hair.
6. Restaurants: Please don’t make me pick the restaurant because you think I have an aversion to a certain food. I hated making the restaurant choice before cancer, and I still hate it. I’ll let you know if something doesn’t sound good.
7. Cancer Questions: Don’t assume that I don’t want to talk about cancer. If you’re comfortable talking about it, then so am I. Talking about it actually provides some sense of comfort for me, so don’t be bashful - if you have any questions, just ask me.

Please note - While based in truth, these are meant to be light-hearted. Please don’t take any of them personally - they aren’t based on any one situation.